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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



POEMS ALL THE 
WAY FROM PIKE 



BY 



ROBERTUS LOVE 



''I coiTue from old Missouri, 
All the way from PiKe." 



ST. LOUIS 

THE PAN-AMERICAN PRESS 

19 4 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 

Two Copies Received 

JUN 8 1904 

Copyrlf ht Entry 

CLASS /i XXo. No. 

COPY B 



P5'^:5') 



COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY 
THE PAN-AMERICAN PRESS 



.-••**.. 



TO THE 
PIKE COUNTY COLONY IN ST. LOUIS 



IN EJ^TEHUATIOM 

THE writer of these verses cherishes no ambition to 
be ''damned with faint praise" as a neighbor- 
hood poet. It so happens, however, that during" 
seven years of his formative period he was a resident of 
Pike County, Missouri. ]\Iore than thirty years ago ^Nlr. 
John Hay, now the Honorable Secretary of State, publish- 
ed "Pike County Ballads." The Pike of Mr. Hay's ballads 
lies in Illinois, across the Mississippi river from the Mis- 
souri Pike, and is noted chiefly for having given title to 
the book of virile ballads mentioned. 

The present author puts forth the claim that Pike 
County, Missouri, is the most famous county in the 
United States, by reason of the imperishable popularity 
of the old '7o6 Bowers" ballad, the authorship of which 
is a matter of dispute, though recently it has been as- 
cribed to one John Woodward, an early vaudeville singer 
in California. 

This ballad was first sung in a variety theater or dance 
hall in San Francisco, in the days of the Californian 
Argonauts more than half a century ago. Homely 
though its style be, it is compact of pathos and humor, 
and the story is woven into the woof and fiber of the life 
of Missouri and the Middle West. It is not impossible 
to trace the naming of the "midway" or concessions 



street of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition at St. Louis 
— "The Pike" — to the influence of the '7^^ Bowers" bal- 
lad. 

Being a "Piker" himself, the author of "Poems All the 
Way from Pike" feels that he possesses license both 
poetic and proprietary to draw upon the celebrated ballad 
for the title of his book. 

R. L. 

St. Louis, May 5, 1904. 



►^ll^d off Joe Bo^^et'j 



(Author Unidentified.) 



My name it is Joe Bowers, 

And I've got a brother Ike; 
I come from old Missouri, 

All the way from Pike, 
ril tell you ivhy I left there 
And how I came to roam 
And leave my poor old mammy 
So far azvay from home. 

I used to court a gal there — 

Her name zuas Sally Black; 
I axed her if she'd marry me; 

She said it zvas a zvhack. 
Says she to me, ''Joe Bozvers, 

Before zve hitch for life 
Von ought to get a little home 

To keep your little zvife." 

O Sally ! dearest Sally ! 

O Sally! For your sake 
ril go to California 

And try to make a stake. 
Says she to me, ''Joe Bozvers, 

You are the man to zvin; 
Here's a kiss to bind the bargain," 

And she hove a do sen in. 



When I got to that country 

I hadn't nary red; 
I had such ivolfish feelings 

I zmshed myself 'most dead; 
But the thoughts of my dear Sally 

Soon made those feelings git, 
And zvhispered hopes to Bozvers — 

/ zuish I had 'em yit! 

At length I zvent to mining, 

Put in my biggest licks, 
Went dozvn upon the boulders 

Just like a thousand bricks. 
I zvorked both late and early 

In rain, in sun, in snozu; 
I zuas zvorking for my Sally — 

'Tzvas all the same to Joe. 

At length I got a letter 

From my dear brother Ike : 
It came from old Missouri, 

All the zuay from Pike; 
It brought to me the darndest nezvs 

That ever yon did hear! 
My heart is almost bursting, 

So pray excuse this tear. 

It said that Sal zms false to me, 

Her love for me had Hed; 
She'd got married to a butcher — 

The butchery's hair zvas red; 
And more than that the letter said 

(It's enough to make me szvear) — 
That Sally had a baby. 

And the baby had red hair! 



Titles in the Book 

Pago 



The Ballad of Joe Bowers (Preceding-) 

The Missouri ]\Ieerschanm 15 

Sam Sanders of Pike 18 

Back on Simmons Crick 21 

Little Johnny Loney Bov 24 

A Ballad of Bullfrogs 26 

A Pike County Christmas Tree 28 

Away, 'Way Back 33 

The Pike County News 35 

Joe Bowers's Brother Ike 39 

Away Off Yonder 42 

Jist Plain Jim 45 

The Land of the Big Red Apple 49 

How Sim Peters Had Plis Day 51 

The Boys I Went A-Fishing With 55 

On Shanks's Mare 56 

Back in Old Alizzoury 58 

Si Brown's Philosophy 61 

The Opera Hat 63 

The Jumpety-Jump 66 

A Letter to Brother 68 

At Lincoln's Tomb 71 

Jist to Be Contented 75 



TITLES rx THE BOOK-(Coiitinaed) 

In a ]3ack-Couiitry l^own "/(^ 

The Old Blue Spclling-Book 78 

On Lonesome Avenue 80 

Wood Scents 82 

Wishin' for Fishin' 83 

The Things Worth While 85 

In Praise of the Present 87 

The Cheerful Heart 89 

The Boy Who Has No Santa Claus 91 

My Fond Coquette . . .' 93 

Just to Be Loved 94 

Eugene Field 95 

A Lyric of Tears and Laughter 96 

Junetime 98 

The Maiden Poesy 99 

A Lyric of Literludes loi 

The Mystery 103 

A Vision of Fraternity 104 

Liberty and Love 107 

Personality 108 

A Mountain Fancy 109 

An Old Man's Comrades no 

A Lover's Rhapsody in 

Monuments 112 

The New Thought 113 

The Three Oo Ages 117 

A Lyric of Desires and Dreams 118 

Henry George Memorial Verses 120 

The Winners of Laurels 121 

Never Mind ! 123 

Appendix 125 



POISM® AL-IL THE WAY 
FROM FIME 



The Missouri Meerschaum 



SOME swear by light Havana leaf that's rolled in slim 
cigars 

By swarthy Cubans' nimble hands beneath the 
southern stars ; 

And when they puff the fragrant weed, mayhap the curl- 
ing rings 

Show visions of fandangoes gay, and strumming, hum- 
ming strings ; 

I know not — but in truth I know My Lady Nicotine 

For me enchantments lovelier hath, delights more kind 
and keen : 

The pipe that grows in happy fields where I so yearn to 
be— 

The old Missouri meerschaum, lads, and that's the smoke 
for me ! 

So I smoke my corncob pipe 

And I dream of apples ripe 

In the orchard by the road. 

Of the fields of corn I hoed 

Where my boyhood dreams were born. 

Oh, the far-off fields of corn. 

With the river flowing by 

And the waving woods anigh ! 



16 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 

Let dilettante clubmen smoke the choicest weeds they 

choose, 
And, lounging on their soft divans, discuss the daily 

news — 
The ebb and flow of market tides, the social swirl and set ; 
Their flavor cannot soothe the nerves, it cannot kill regret. 
But I shall sit me snug and close, with humble pipe and 

stem. 
To dream of loved one far away — I've not forgotten 

them. 
Nor yet the lowly farmhouse and the fields of corn where 

grows 
The old Missouri meerschaum, lads, and that's the pipe 

that goes! 

Oh, the lyric lilt of birds! 

Oh, the tinkle-tinkle-tink 

Of the bell that leads the herds 

Through the pasture ! oh, the wink 

Of the daisy-eyes that shine 

In the meadow — all are mine ! 

And the kindly common folk 

Beckon backward through the smoke. 

So, not for me the Cuban roll, nor that which by brevet 
Of courtesy is called a smoke — the soulless cigarette ; 
If any dreams it conjures up I doubt not they are spawn 
Of hideous hells where lunacy and leering idiots yawn ! 
I choose the granulated weed and press it in the bowl 
Of this one only pipe that hath an individual soul — 



y^^^ MISSOURI MEERSCHAUM 



17 



The sentient soul of growing corn in fertile fields afar • 
The old Missouri meerschaum, lads, it beats your best 
cigar ! 

Oh, its visions void of guile ! 
Oh, the shimmer and the smile 
Of the sunshine on the grain 
Gathered in the creaking wain 
Rolling barnward ! oh, the wealth 
Of the heart-ease and the health ! 
Oh, the jolly, holy joy- 
Mine again as when a boy! 



18 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



Sam Sanders of Pike 



I RECKON you've heerd of Sam Sanders? 
He was lean as a razor-back shoat, 
Cross-eyed, knock-kneed and pigeon-toed, 
With a beard like a billy-goat. 
No great shakes for beauty was Samuel, 

Nor anything extry for style; 
Though his coat was of many colors, 
'Twas made so by grease stains and ile. 

Now I want to saw out some opinions 

And moralize jist for a bit, 
And you-all that don't like my preaching, 

You-all can jist git up and git; 
For I'm 'lowing that Mr. Sam Sanders, 

Whom you onct turned your noses up at, 
Was one of God's natural gentlemen 

From his heels to his last year's hat. 

Ricollect when the springtime freshets 

From the Mississip' bust through the dike 
And come 'crost the flats a-riproaring 

Till they kivered the best half of Pike? 
How houses was swept from their under-pins, 

And women and kids and cows 
Was cruising around on any old thing 

To save themselves from a souse ? 



SAM SANDERS OF PIKE 19 

Wull, I reckon I'll never forgit it ! 

I remark I was right in the swim, 
And IM been in the Gulf of Mexico now 

If it hadn^t a-been for him ; 
Yes, that's who I mean — Sam Sanders, 

That worked on the Haley place ; 
And if God hain^t feathered a tick for him 

There's something dead wrong in the case. 

Me and my wife and the seven kids 

From the twins to the ten-year-old, 
And my old dog Pete and a couple of cats 

And a dozen old hens, all told, 
Was riding her out on the cow-shed. 

Afloat in that muddy mess, 
A-breshing 'g'inst trees and colliding 

In a way that was hell, I confess ! 

Folks drownded there all about us. 

Losing holt on the logs and sich ; 
And a cuss who could stick till rescue come. 

Though heM lost all he had, was rich. 
There was only three skiffs in the valley 

And one had got smashed in the jam, 
Another was crammed with the Haley folks 

And t'other belonged to Sam. 

I seen him rowing through drift and swirl 

And pulling sich beautiful strokes 
As would make them Yale yaps envious — 

A-steering straight for my folks ; 



20 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

And we all dumb into his modern ark, 
The women, the kids that cried, 

Hen-roost and all but pore old Pete, 
For a sliver had pierced his side. 

I took one pair of the oars myself 

And we hit a hot pace for the land, 
But a pityful moan from that wounded dog 

Was more'n Sam Sanders could stand. 
"Jist hold 'er stiddy a bit !" he yelled ; 

And douse my gHm complete 
If he didn't jump into that yaller flood 

And swim for to rescue Pete ! 

No, he didn't go down in a whirlpool, 
" Nor collide with a murderous log ; 
He jist swum back to the little ark 

With one fin around that dog! 
And Fve heerd how, a year or so after. 

He was ketched and sent to the pen 
For fifteen year for a man-hunt. 

Though he croaked of the ager in ten. 

And as I have remarked of this Samuel 

Whom the dear public held up to scorn 
And the papers slopped over with slanders, 

He was mostly a gentleman born ; 
And the jury would never convicted him, 

Nor the jedge concurred from his seat. 
If they'd come around during the trial 

And interviewed me and Pete. 



BACK ON SIMMONS CRICK 21 



Back on Simmons Crick 



LE'S me and you, Bill Smith, th'ow off our dignity 
and cares 
A week or so — our hifalutin English and our airs 
'At we've putt on sence, green as gourds, we left ole 

Simmonstown 
And tackled this metropoHs, jist eetchin' for renown. 
Le's quit 

This hop-and-jump a bit 
And go and fish in Simmons Crick, and count the bites 
we git. 

It's nigh on thirty year, I guess, sence me and you. Bill 

Smith, 
And them there boys acrost the crick we went a-fishin' 

with, 
Sot down along ole Catfish Hole, where weepin' willers 

wept. 
An' gurglin' waters lafifed at them, along when shadders 

crept, 

And night 

Shet all our corks from sight, 
And only by the jerk we knowed we'd got a likely bite. 



22 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

Le's chuck our honors for a spell, J. William Smith, Esq., 
And say, "Dad-burn the public and the bus'ness!" 

. . . Time's a liar — 
We're kids agin, jist little tikes 'ith pantaloons 'at won't 
Stay patched behind for anything, nor give a dern 'f they 

don't. 

Le's slide 

Clean out o' this here snide 
Life, and go back to Simmons Crick, where joy ain't 

never died ! 

ril go behind ole Simpson's barn and dig the fishin' 

worms. 
Nor care a cuss for mud and muss, nor mikey-robes, 

nor germs ; 
And you can mosey up the hill acrost McCloskey's ole 
Corn-patch and cut a pawpaw stick to make a fishin' 

pole ; 

And then, 

I jinks ! 'ith Jim and Hen 
Westover, me and you will fish f'om four o'clock till ten. 

And maybe you'll fall in agin, jist like you done that day 
You sneaked your work — you mind your pap was busy 

cuttin' hay — 
You nearly drownded, and he said 'twas punishment 

because 
You was a disobejunt boy and broke the filyul laws. . . . 
Perhaps 

It's good for us ole chaps 
To learn a lesson that-a-way, on how to mind our paps. 



BACK ON SIMMONS CRICK 23 

Come on, Bill Smith! shet up them books on law, and 

take a j^ant 
'Ith me to Simmonstown agin. You^re lookin' pale and 

ga'nt. 
For all your wealth and honors; and for me — Fve got 

a stoop. 
Hooray for Simmons Crick today! here's back to boy- 
hood — whoop ! 
Gee whiz I 

How many fish the' is, 
And — who's in swimmin' down the crick? . . . 
Say, Bill, it's Nell and Liz ! 



24 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 



Little Johnny Loney Boy 



O LITTLE Johnny Loney Boy, Tm sorry for you, so ! 
You have no home to stay at, and you have no 
place to go ; 
You have no ma, you have no pa, you have no Httle sis, 
Nor even any maiden aunt to warm you with a kiss ; 
You're just a httle loney boy, 
Without a single childish joy; 
Tm sorry for you, so ! 

O Little Johnny Loney Boy, I sometimes wonder why 
The dear, good Father of us all, up yonder in the sky. 
Has left you here so lone and drear, without your share 

of folks, 
Not even a baby brother boy to pinch and tease and coax. 
You're just a little loney one. 
Without a chance for any fun : 
I'm sorry for you, though ! 

O Little Johnny Loney Boy, I'd like to take you home, 
If I had such a place myself, who always have to roam ; 
I'd like to take you and tuck you in and watch you while 

you sleep. 
Or tell you tales of Candy Land, where polly-woUies 

creep. 



LITTLE JOHNNY LONE Y BO Y 25 



You're just a little loney lad, 
Without a soul to make you glad 
Fm sorry for you, oh ! 



O Little Johnny Loney Boy, I think you're kin to me ! 
Come, let us roam together; you can sit upon my knee. 
And tell me mighty mysteries of childhood's yearning 

heart. 
While I can tell you lesser ones of manhood's sterner 
part! 

I guess we both are loney boys 
And need each other 'stead of toys : 
We won't be sorry, no ! 



26 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 



A Ballad of Bullfrogs 



OH, I'm orful tired o' city life and want to git away 
To whar a feller has a chance to sniff the curin' 
hay, 
And see the corn a-tasslin' out and apples blushin' red, 
And pick the watermillons when the stems gits dead ; 
But more 'an all the other wants 'at plagues a homesick 
feller, 

I want to hear the bullfrogs beller ! 

You've never knowed what music is, you folks that stays 

in town. 
With wagons rattlin' on the stones and cyars sashayin' 

'roun' ! 
Wy, when your work is over and you hurry home, you 

droop 
Like wilted weeds in August time, a-settin' on the stoop 
And hearin' nary single sound to soothe a lonesome 

feller 

'At likes to hear the bullfrogs beller. 

Tell you ! I'd love to settle on the old portyco 

'Long about this twilight time and feel the breezes blow, 



A BALLAD OF BULLFROGS 27 

With medder scents ^at puts to shame your citified 

cologne 
And makes you feel the unyverse is ever' bit your own ! 
While, fom away off down the crick, thar comes the 

meltin' meller 

Bass fiddlin' of the bullfrogs' beller ! 

Out in the open country is nature's orkstry grand 
'At never needs no horns to toot, nor any fiddlin' hand ; 
But when the dark begins to fall and shet the landscape in 
You hear above the rest of it the bass violin ; 
And it's better than an opry to the country-born feller 
'At loves to hear the bullfrogs beller. 

Yes, I'm sick and tired o' city life and all its raspy noise, 
And glarin' lights, and revelry, and sins 'at pass for joys ! 
I want to slide clean out of it and go along the crick 
And stand knee-deep in medder grass 'at grows so green 

and thick, 
To hear the sound so soothin' to a country- Jake feller : 
Oh, I've got to hear the bullfrogs beller ! 



28 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 



A Pike County Christmas Tree 



1RICOLLECT a Christmas tree that oiict we had in 
Pike- 
There was me and Minky Peters, Joe Bowers, his 
brother Ike^ 
And haff a dozen other ducks as constitooted then 
The **Bible Class" in Sunday school and helped to grunt 

"Amen V 
When the parson prayed particlar — we-alls chopped a 

cedar tree 
And stuck it up inside the church ferninst the jubilee. 

We'd done the same a dozen years and helped the gals 

to trim 
Them trees with Christmas fol-de-rols on every bloomin' 

limb. 
There was popcorn balls and candy bags for Jim and 

Jess and Nell, 
And Mother Goose's poetry for kids that couldn^t spell, 
And skates and tops and jumpin'-jacks, and dolls and 

hoods and caps. 
With here and there a Testament for solemn little chaps. 



A PIKE COUNTY CHRISTMAS TREE 29 

When Christmas Eve was on the slate weM all collect 

in there, 
And Parson Jones 'uld cut the stack and start the game 

with prayer; 
And then weM yank the curtain back and show that 

blessed tree, 
Lit up with teeny candles that \ild fill the kids with glee ; 
And while the organ played a chune some awkward guy 

would come 
A-plagiarizin' Santy Claus — and every kid was dumb ! 

The porest child in Sunday school was little Jennie Kerr ; 
She didn't have no Santy Claus to put things on for her, 
So Minky Peters, or Joe Bowers, his brother Ike or me 
Would always buy some trick for her and sneak it on 

the tree 
And write her name acrost the cyard, so when the deal 

begun 
That little orphant tuck a hand and mingled in the fun. 

When Marthy Simpson run away with Kerr some years 

before 
Old Simpson turned agin his gal and tuck his oath and 

swore 
He'd never lift a hand to help his darter — or her brats — 
Which same I 'low was middlin' mean ; for Simpson — 

dog my cats ! 
Had money to incinerate ; he kep' the village store 
And run a bank, and had the scads to start a dozen more. 



30 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

When Kerr himself skinned out one day and shook his 

wife and kid, 
Old Simpson kep' his word intact, and nary thing he did 
In all them years to aid the gal, who had to work and 

slave 
With one foot on the porehoiise stoop and t'other in the 

grave. 
So little Jennie's pathway wasn't filled with dolls and 

things — 
Exceptin' when us grown-up guys got sorter soft, by 

jings ! 

Well, this partic'lar Christmas tree we'd started in to pick, 
And Santy — alias Joseph Bowers — was doin' of the trick. 
He'd yank a present off a limb and sing out whose it wuz, 
And somewhere back among the pews there'd be a kind 

of buzz. 
And then some bashful boy or gal, a-sportin' of a smile, 
To rake that Christmas present in would mosey down 

the aisle. 

The kids had mostly tuck their tricks, and I must shore 
confess 

Of that there sanctuarium they'd made a holy mess ! 

For there was 'lasses candy on the cushions of the pews, 

And hafif the hymn-books in the church was smeared 
with it, profuse. 

But what's the odds ? for all the kids was full of Christ- 
mas cheer, 

Exceptin' — I regret to state — exceptin' Jennie Kerr. 



A PIKE COUNTY CHRISTMAS TREE 31 

There sot that little orphant on her shrinkin' mother's 

knee, 
Away off in a corner, and the sight flustrated me. 
For all at onct I tumbled that we'd clean forgot that 

night 
To put a present on the tree and make her Christmas 

bright ; 
So I winked at Minky Peters, and he winked at Santy 

Claus, 
And Santy winked at Isaac, who enlisted in the cause. 

We-alls went behind the scenery and held a short confab. 
The result of which my aim on this occasion is to blab. 
Joe Bowers — which was Santy — was to entertain the 

gang 
With some most amusin' antics and some edifyin' slang 
'Bout chimbley-tops and reindeers, and Kris Kringle and 

his packs. 
While the rest of us for Christmas goods to Simpson's 

store made tracks. 

Old Simpson waited on us. When he axed us what we'd 

like 
We said we'd buy a present for the porest child in Pike ; 
Then his hard face sorter sof'ened, and he hung his 

ornery head 
As he handed me a letter, and this is what he said : 
"I guess you-alls' mistaken if you speak of Jennie Kerr ; 
You needn't buy no present, boys — jist put this on 

for her." 



32 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 

We-alls was somewhat doobious, but we tuck the 

letter in 
And sneaked it on the Christmas tree, while Bowers 

drowned the din 
And read the name of Jennie Kerr, who toddled down 

the aisle 
As gay as any young ^un there, though somewhat out 

of style. 
She tuck the mail from Bowers's fist and in her mother's 

lap 
Deposited that envelope from Marthy's ornery pap. 

When the widder read the contents of old Simpson's 

envelope 
She up and fainted dead away, as if she'd swallered dope. 
Then Minky Peters scowled at me, and I scowled back 

at him. 
And we-alls started for the store to douse a certain 

glim— 
A-countin' on a present on a Christmas tree outside, 
With the devil's name writ on it acrost old Simpson's 

hide! 

We'd swiped a rope from Simpson's barn, when Bowers 

called us back, 
And likewise called us several names — in language which 

I lack; 
And when we got to church agin he read that letter out. 
And every lung among the crowd was bustin' with a 

shout. 
Was it an insult to the kid ? Not on your liver-pads ! 
He'd sent that little gal his check for twenty thousand 

scads ! 



AWAY, 'WAY BACK 33 



Away, 'Way Back 



I'D like to go away, 'way back, for just a little while, 
And sit me down with Lucy Brown upon her father's 
stile. 
Just as I used to do at dusk, when whippoorwills were 

calling 
And on the scented pasture grass the silver dew was 
falling : 

The day's hard work was over. 
The horses munching clover, 
And everything so restful and so soothing and so sweet — 
With Lucy on the stile there 
To sit a happy while there. 
And talk about the hay crop and the wheat. 

If I could go away, \vay back, I think I could recall 
We thought about some other things — the hay crop 

wasn't all ! 
On Lucy's father's pasture stile, when linnets were 

a-trilling. 
Thoughts hardly agricultural our truant heads were 
fining : 

We used to prate and ponder 
On things away ofif yonder. 



34 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

When we should man and woman be and build a bonny 
nest. 

Ah ! it was sweet to sigh there — 
Just only she and I there — 
To think about the hay crop, and the rest ! 

To go away, 'way back again I need not leave my wife 
Nor any other glorious thing that makes me glad of life : 
I simply think of those old fields where dreamsome dew 

was falling, 
And through the haze I hear afar delicious voices calling. 
The day's hard work is over, 
But neither horse nor clover 
Nor whippoorwill nor linnet's here, where every field's a 
street ; 

So I'll go back awhile there, 
With Lucy on the stile there. 
To dream about the hay crop and — the wheat. 

And then I'll come away, ''way back from those delightful 

days 
Whereto my recollection still, in sacred silence, strays — 
Come back to hearth and home and now, and . Lucy's 

living smile — 
Praise God, she's just as sweet as when we sat upon the 
stile ! 

And still we prate and ponder 
On things away off yonder. 
Ere we were wed and flew to town to build our bonny 
nest: 

Just only she and I here 
(And Bye-O-Baby-Bye here), 
To smile about the hay crop — and the rest ! 



THE PIKE COUNTY NEWS 35 



The Pike County News 



(By a Subscriber in New York City.) 

YOU-ALL can read your Tr3^bune, your Herald and 
your Sun, 
Chuck full of furrin nonsense, and talk that's never 
done, 
And what goes on in Congress, at Washington, D. C, 
Where we pay politicianers to jine that jabbaree. 
You can read your high-tone' papers, with tariff rates 

and rot. 
And political palaver ; but for me — I'd ruther not. 
When Fm a-wantin' readin' Fm as like as not to choose 
A little old Mizzoury sheet — the Pike County News. 

It hain't no glarin' headlines a-scarin' you to death. 
Nor pictures of disasters that makes you hold your 

breath, 
Nor any ornery poetry by some jimcrack galoot 
The editor was sorry for and didn't like to shoot ; 
Nor it hain't no blamed opinions on things you don't 

know what 
And no man livin' onderstands — like all these sheets 

has got. 
It's jist the plain old homespun fac's a feller can peruse 
When readin' in a paper like the Pike County News. 



36 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 

I like to see the mail man a-comin' Friday night ; 

It makes me peart and chipper-like and tones me up 

a sight. 
All week I be'n perusin' of these picture sheets they sell 
Here in Noo York, but mostly gits their contents out o' 

hell 
Or some'eres in that latitood, and serves it up red-hot 
To sear the souls of youngsters, and spile ^em, like as not. 
I tell you, when the mail man conies a-Fridays I enthuse, 
For I know he's got the sheet I want — the Pike County 

News. 

I grab that paper eager, and I hustle for my room, 

And when I 3^ank the wrapper off there's always a 
perfume 

Of good old Country Campbell press and honest print- 
ers^ ink, 

Purt'-nigh intoxicatin' as a raal old-fashion' drink. 

Jist does me good to snufif it up and sniff the aromer in — 

It beats your French sham-pag-ne and it lays all over 
gin! 

No use to drownd myself in drink to chase away the 
blues : 

Jist gimme this old sofy, and the Pike County News. 

W^y, here's the ''Personal" column that tells how Homer 

Smith 
Has gone to take his bridal tower — and who he tuck it 

with ; 
And how Max Michael's in Noo York a-layin' in his 

stock 



THE PIKE COUNTY NEWS 37 

(ril hunt him up and chin him, if it takes till twelve 

o'clock !) ; 
And how Ras Pearson, that I knowed when he was 'bout 

fourteen, 
Is State's Attorney now and fights "the ring" at Bowlin' 

Green. 
These things is all important, and ever' one I'd lose 
If I didn't pay my dollar for the Pike County News. 

And here's a piece about Will Gray, that used to run 

"The Press" 
When I done local on it and made a holy mess. 
He's got to be the Probate Jedge and passes on estates — 
A lucky journalist, for now he gits the legal rates. 
He used to offer me advice 'bout what he called "career," 
And when I mentioned lit'ratoor he said : "Now, look-ee 

here. 
You'll only starve to death at that ; think well before you 

choose." 
But still I live on lit'ratoor — the Pike County News. 

W^'y, here's a picture of Dave Ball, a feller that was 

raised 
'Longside o' punkins in the fields ; I'm not a-tall amazed 
To read that he's a candidate for gov'nor of the state, 
For that's the kind o' cornstalks that has the runnin' 

gait; 
And when he gits elected — as you better bet he'll git — 
I'm headin' for Mizzoury, to strike him for a sit ; 



38 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 

I hanker for a sinecure, a job where I can snooze 

And git my breath, and sal'ry, and the Bike County 

News. 

This page is where the marriages and births and deaths 
is found ; 

There ain^t a name that I don't know from all the 
country 'round. 

Here's 'bout Frank Chapman's weddin' — he runs a gro- 
cery store ; 

And here I see the Walker folks has got a Walker more. 

'Twas on this page a year ago with reverent eyes I read 

A boy I went a-fishin' with was numbered with the dead ; 

And one whose name I name not — no need to ask me 
whose — 

I read about her fun'ral in the Pike County News. 
New York, 1897 



JOE BOWERS' S BROTHER IKE 39 



Joe Bowers's Brother Ike 



My name it is Joe Bowers, 
And I've got a brother Ike; 

I come from old Missouri^ 
All the way from Pike. 



— Old Song. 



Doif t nobody speak 

Or say nothin', or Fll 
Put a hole in his cheek 
That'll cause him to spile ! 
When I gits my dander up I'm usually bad for a while. 

And it's shore up tonight, 

And don't you forgit 
If you're here for a fight 
I'm p'pared jist for it, 
And I've never yit met a survivor of a fracas whar I 
have fit. 

No man can call me 

What he did and survive, 
Or continue to be, 
After I shall arrive, 
For I thinks when I hears sich buzzin' there's too many 
bees in the hive. 



40 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

You black-whiskered bloke, 

Now git ready for war, 
For thar^s go'n to be smoke 
And confusion, the' are ; 
But we'll drop guns and fight, if you say, so's to make the 
thing squar'. 

What's that you say ? Baw ! 

"'Wait a while ; let you speak ?" 
Got no sand in your craw? 

Wouldn't thought you so weak 
In the heart when so overly strong in the matter of 
cheek. 

'Mind me of a man 

I somehow kinder like 
(Though don't see how you can) ; 

Yes, as shore's I'm from Pike 
County, State of Mizzoury, you fellers is somehow alike ! 

W'y, of course I'm from Pike, 

You big knock-kneed galoot ! 
So's my big brother Ike, 

Who's likewise on the shoot, 
And whenever you meets one of us you had better salute. 

You come from Pike County, too ! 

What you givin' us, pard ? 
None your lyin' ! 'Twon't do 
In this yere graveyard. 
For the consequences of lyin' is sometimes ruther hard. 



JOE BOWERS' S BROTHER IKE 41 

Sw^ar to it ? Look yere, 

D'ye know old Jack Jones ? 
Do, uh? (We'll take beer, 

Barkeep^) Know that old bones, 
Who's so mean that the people he meets does nothin' 
but groans ? 

If you do, what's his name? 

That's it — Simpson — by Joe ! 
You do know, and you came 
From old Pike, and you know 
Folks I do, and yere I've been makin' this doost of a 
blow ! 

Ever know Ike Bowers? 

He's a brother of mine, 
And as white as God's flowers ! 
Left thar 'bout '59. 
Ain't heerd much of him sence, and for fifteen year not 
a line. 

Pore boy, s'pose he's — what ? 

You him ? I'll be blazed 
If I hain't clean forgot 

Who I am and whar raised. 
So quick and complete I'm knocked out and bumfoozled 
and dazed. 

That beard — well, that growed. 
Couldn't it ? But them eyes ! 
W'y, Ike, I jist knowed 
It was you by your size 
And the prompt Pike County manner that you counter- 
dieted my lies ! 



42 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



Away Off Yonder 



WHEN I was a boy in the sweet Southwest — 
That far-off land that I love the best- 
When my hair was gold and my cheek was 
brown, 
I used to sit, as the sun went down, 
On the old rail fence of the pasture lot 
A-wishing for things that I had not 
And thinking how they might all be got, 
If rd only get up some gladsome day 
And pack my pack and be off and away — 
Away off yonder. 

Fine scorn I had for the pasture lot 
And the fields of corn, for the days were hot 
And the work was hard, and the things at hand 
V/ere never the things my fancy planned ; 
So I yearned for the ^Way Off Yonder Land 
Where chances grew on gossamer trees 
In the shady street of Do-as-you-please 
In the city of Somewhere-worth-your-while, 
A many and many and many a mile 
Away off yonder. 



A WA Y OFF YONDER 43 



At last there came that gladsome day 
When I packed my pack and was off and away, 
Leaving the home of my boyhood and youth, 
Father and mother and Maud and Ruth, 
Billy and John and the rest of the boys, 
The skates and the sleds and the childish toys. 
The dear old farm and its simple joys — 
Off and away on the steam-god^s wings 
To the big Wide World of Wonderful Things 
Away oft' yonder. 

Ah, the years are many and lone and long 
Since I joined the Order of Endless Throng- 
In quest of the things that I thought so grand 
When I dwelt and dreamed in the sunset land ! 
And Tve found that so very much depends 
On the hovering halo that distance lends; 
And the couriers King I-want-to sends 
To summon his subjects to pay him court 
Invite to labor instead of sport. 
Away off yonder ! 

The city of Somewhere-worth-your-while 
Is sick with sorrow and sad with guile, 
And the chances that grow on gossamer trees 
Are chances of heartache and not of ease — 
The muddled brain and the bending knees, 
The foot that falters and knoweth not 
The velvet tread of the pasture lot. 
Nor the resting place on the old low stile 
A many and many a weary mile 
Away off yonder ! 



44 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

So now, as I toil in the populous town, 
My cheek grown sallow that once was brown, 
I sometimes pause as the sun goes down, 
A-wishing for things that I have not 
And thinking about that pasture lot ; 
Of the old rail fence and the breeze that goes 
Across the garden to rob the rose ; 
Of mother and father and Maud and Ruth, 
Billy and John and the friends of my youth 
Away off yonder. 

Yea, the lovely wraiths of a thousand things 
Are borne to me on day-dream wings 
Out of the West, the sweet Southwest, 
That Vay-off land that I love the best : 
Hands I have held and lips I have pressed, 
Hopes I have cherished but never told 
For lack of the 'Way Off Yonder gold. 
Yet, ah ! what a mine of marvelous joy 
Was all my own when I was a boy 
Away off yonder ! 



JIST PLAIN JIM 45 



Jist Plain Jim 



DOWN in the city yistiddy I seen a feller there 
I hadn't saw in twenty year, or thirty, I declare ! 
He's runnin' of a railroad now, a sort of president. 
And folks do say he's got to be a hifalutin gent ; 
But still to me he ain't no more'n he was when we was 

boys 
A-fishin' down in Simmons Crick, and makin' lots of 

noise 
At playin' Rebel soldiers. W'y, I'm only Joe to him; 
And he to me, as he used to be, is jist plain Jim. 

I says, says I to Jim, as there I seen him settin' down 
Before a desk, with telyphones and all sich tricks aroun', 
Says I : ''Hello, there, Jim !" and he looked at me kinder 

hard 
And says, a sort o' tired-like voice : '^I didn't git your 

cyard." 
"I didn't write no postal, Jim ; I thought I'd jist drap in — 
Run down to town to sell some mules — and ask you how 

you've been." 
And — would you b'lieve it? — that old Jim, he teched a 

button there, 
And some young blood come stalkin' in and friz me with 

a stare ! 



46 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

This upstart handed me a cyard. "This yere's my busy 

day," 
Or somethinMike, it read; and Jim, he never grinned, 

but, say ! 
I got to laffin' fit to kill — I shorely thought I'd choke. 
Both on ^em looked so serious-like, a-playin' of the joke. 
"Fm busy, too," says I, "Lord knows ! I got my corn 

laid by, 
But harvest time is comin' on ; there^s lots to do," says I, 
'''But still I^^e tuck a minute off, as every Tom and Dick 
And Harry will, onct in a while, up there on Simmons 

Crick." 

Jim pricked his ears up-like, at this, jist Hke a mule IM 

brought 
To market, when he seen his oats. And then he sot and 

thought 
A second. Course I knowed that Jim he didn't reco'nize 
Old Joe, but rd ^a' knowed that boy in Yurrup by his 

eyes. 
Says 'e, ''Set down." I sot. "Git out !" That feller with 

the cyard 
Got out at onct ; I s'pose he went somewheres and stood 

on gyard. 
'Tm pleased to see you," then says Jim, but sort of 

doobious-like ; 
"How's all the folks I used to know away up there in 

Pike?" 

"Now, don't come none of that on me," says I ; "I'm not 



J 1ST PLAIN JIM 47 



I know youVe tried to place me, but there's thirty year 

between. 
Fm changed a sight, I reckon, but I hain't forgot them 

days 
We used to ^o a-swimmin' with the Joneses and the Rays 
And Simmonses, in Simmons Crick, down there at Rocky 

Hole, 
Where onct you walloped Billy Ray and broke your 

fishin' pole/' 
Jim smiled. "I jing!" says 'e, "I did; but look-ee here, 

now, say, 
I'd sorter putt you down yourself as bein' Billy Ray?" 

^'W'y, hain't you heerd," says I to Jim, "how Billy, 'way 

back there 
In '8i, was drownded dead while skatin'? I declare!" 
Jim looked complete su'prised at this, and kinder hung 

his head. 
''I hadn't heerd; I'm sorry now I whupped him so,"' he 

said. 
"It's quare," says 'e, "I can't jist call your name out, but 

I know 
You must ^a' played with me and him some thirty year 

ago. 
Where's Minky Peters now?" says Jim. "'He's in the 

pen," says I ; 
*^I guess you think I'm Minky, but you got another try." 

"Why can't you tell a feller who you be, nohow?" says 
Jim. 



48 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 

"I can, but won't; Til make you find it out," says I to 

him. 
"D'you ricollect when me and you and Billy Ray and 

Pete 
Westover went to skirmish 'roun' for somethin' good 

to eat? 
We found it in a millon patch in Jones's bottom field — 
My ! but them watermillon vines did have a mighty yield ! 
Two boys tuck one apiece and sneaked together ; met up 

Nell, 
Old Jones's gal, both on 'em loved; she swore she'd 

never tell " 

Say, but that brung old Jim aroun' ! He jist riz up and 

pawed 
My neck and shoulders, hugged me tight, and yee-haw- 

haw-haw-hawed. 
He was so pleased. He sniffed and snuffed, and blurted 

out, '^Hooroo ! 
W'y, who'd 'a' thunk it? Joe — Joe Brown!! I knowed 

all time 'twas you !" 
Says I, "You lie !" good-natured-like. Says 'e, "Where's 

Nellie now ?" 
"She's Mrs. Joseph Brown," says I; '^I cut you out, I 

'low." 
Says 'e, "^'Congratchylations," and I seen his eyes was 

dim. . . . 
He's richer'n me, but — don't you see? — he's jist plain 

Jim. 



THE LAND OF THE BIG RED APPLE 49 



The Land of the Big Red Apple 

(Missouri.) 



THE Land of the Big Red Apple 
Is the land where I was born, 
The land likewise of sunny skies 

And wondrous walls of corn 
That border billowed seas of wheat 

Where yellow nuggets gleam — 
Not Midas gold, but good to eat, 
And glorious as a dream ! 

The Land of the Big Red Apple 

Lies fair beneath her skies 
As halcyon isles where summer smiles 

In seas of Paradise. 
The lowly homestead nestles there. 

With daisies at the door, 
While bloomy clover scents the air — 

I smell it as of yore ! 

The Land of the Big Red Apple 

Is the home of hardy men, 
Who sow and reap, and work and sleep. 

And wake to work again. 



50 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

They go their ways with heads erect ; 

x\nd women walk beside, 
Serene and sweet and circumspect 

And true and tender-eyed. 

The Land of the Big Red Apple 

Is the realm of a lordly race 
Who do and dare, come ease or care, 

Look fortune in the face ; 
They plant their orchards, plow their corn, 

Garner and plant and plow. 
I thank my God that I was born 

In such a land as thou ! 

O Land of the Big Red Apple— 

To thee this ruddy health 
In cider tart with Winesaps' heart 

And rich Ben Davis' wealth ! 
And this one boon of thee I crave : 

When death's dark sea I cross 
Thy apple blossoms to my grave 

The April winds may toss. 



HO W SIM PETERS HAD HIS DA Y 51 



How Sim Peters Had His Day 



' ' NT EVER a dog but has his day/* 

1 N Was what Sim Peters used to say ; 
•*So I don't puppus to repine, 
For some day, shorely. Til have mine." 

So Sim he kep' on at his work 
And never did no dooty shirk, 
But jist true-blue and all yard-wide 
He measured up on ever' side. 

Sim had his mother to support 

Was why he didn't go and court 

That girl he glanced at sidle-wise 

And blushed so when he ketched her eyes. 

You-alls don't ric'lect Mary Ann 
O'Donohue and that there man 
wShe used to go with 'long about 
Time for the ellum buds to sprout? 

Purty ? Well, now, I beg to state ! 
I mind how onct she come in late 
To school, and when she sort o' smiled 
The master shet up, reconciled. 



52 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

Couldn't resist that smile of her^n ; 
'Twas like a rosebud 'bout to turn 
Into a blossom, and her mouth 
Was Ireland married to the South. 

That was the girl Sim Peters 'lowed 
Was perfectest of all the crowd ; 
And though he never said so, still 
We knowed he loved her fit to kill. 

You know Sim's mother was bed-ridden 
And Sim jist banked on her, and didn' 
Let nothin' interfere with him 
A-tendin' mother — that was Sim. 

Givin' her medicine for her cough 

He saw his cronies married of¥ ; 

And when they joshed him, Sim 'uld say, 

"No matter — every dog's his day." 

But when he heerd that Mary Ann 
Was married to that other man 
Sim grit his teeth so they was heerd 
All 'round, but never gulped no word. 

He jist went back into the house, 
Creepin' as quiet as a mouse. 
And kneelin' down 'longside the bed, 
'Well, mother, how you feel?" he said. 

The years went by, as books would say. 
And many a dog had had his day, 



now SIM PETERS HAD HIS DA V 

Partic'ly that dog sort o' man 
That married purty Mary Ann. 

He soon turned out a wuthless cuss, 
Always a-rakin' up a fuss 
With Mary Ann O'Donohue, 
In spite o' swearin' to be true. 

HeM never beat her, for she had 
A sperrit in them eyes so sad 
That told him she was full o' spunk — 
Till onct he come home beastly drunk. 

And then he struck her ! Sim was nigh — 
Jist happened to be passin' by, 
And heerd her screams ; he bust inside, 
And there the dog was, bleary-eyed. 

Sim Peters grabbed him by the hair 
And by the throat, and yelled, "How dare 
Ye strike a woman — and Mary Ann ! 
Ye never dassen' strike a man ! 

"My day has come at last !" said Sim, 
A-chokin' and a-poundin' him. . . . 
I tell you, there's no beast uncaged 
Wild as an honest man enraged. 

The neighbors looked on, awed and still. 
They knowed he loved her fit to kill, 
And yit they dassen' tech the man 
WhoM loved and lost his Mary Ann. 



54 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 

Jist as the drunkard's strugglin' quit 
A man come runnin', hell-to-split. 
"Your mother's dyin', Sim !" he said ; 
Then Sim let go, and hung his head. 

That's all. . . . This ain't no story-book, 
And you-alls has no call to look 
So all-fired cross 'cause I don't say 
Sim weds the widder that same day. 

Because he didn't, don't you see. . . . 
She putt on mournin' clo'es, and he — 
He's in Jeff City pen for life, 
While she's some other fellers wife. 



THE BOYS I WENT A-FISHING WITH 56 



The Boys I Went A-Fishing With 



I WONDER where the Jones boys are 
I used to go a-fishing with, 
And Stephen Paine, and Melvin Parr, 
And cross-eyed Charley Smith. 

Do they still roam the winding streams 
Of swift events that ceaseless flow, 

To angle for the gold that gleams 
Alluringly below ? 

Or have they quit the patient quest 

And unrewarded gone away, 
In quiet fields to lie and rest 

Forever and a day ? 

I wonder where the old men are — 
The Joneses, cross-eyed Charley Smith, 

And Stephen Paine, and Melvin Parr, 
That I went fishing with? 



56 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



On Shanks's Mare 



ALL sorts of travelin' ways there be, 
But only one that jist suits me 
For all times, mornin', noon and night ; 
I 'low that one's my favor-ite ; 
Fm always shore of gittin' there 
Complete on faithful Shanks's mare. 

You-all can ride your blooded stock, 
A-struttin' like a sportin' cock, 
With pants too tight, or else too loose. 
And t'other fixin's spick and spruce; 
But as for me, Fm gittin' there 
Quite comf'able on Shanks's mare. 

Jist mount your bicycle, young man. 
And ketch Lucindy, if you can ; 
She's wearin' them divided skirts. 
And rides a diamond frame — and spurts ; 
But ain't no rubber tire to tear 
Dependin' on old Shanks's mare. 

Some folks I see has ketched right bad 
This hossless ortomobile fad. 
And spins around like anything 



ON SHANKS' S MARE 57 

Without no wagon tongues, by jing ! 

But I feel safer, I declare. 

With full control of Shanks's mare. 

Them railroad cyars is slick enough, 
But smash-up times is mighty tough ; 
And these here trolleys and your cabs 
Are layin' victims on the slabs ; 
And then it don^t cost any fare 
To take a ride on Shanks^s mare. 

So as for me, I think Fll stay 
A convert to the good old way. 
And do my travelin^ safe and sound 
With nothin^ 'twixt me and the ground. 
You can depend on gittin' there 
Complete on faithful Shanks^s mare. 



58 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



Back in Old Mizzoury 



BACK in old Mizzoury is where I'd like to be, 
Mixin' with the home-folks — that's what ketches 
me! 
Back among the people that I know is good and true, 
Hearin' all the neighbors a-sayin', "How-de-do ?'- 
Settin' on the doorstep or layin' on the grass, 
Watchin' farmers' wagons and the schoolboys pass ; 
Showin' mother how to fix the back-door latch, 
Else a-helpin' father to weed the garden patch. 
Jist like it was before I started out to roam — 
Back in old Mizzoury, where it feels like home. 

No, I ain't homesick — it ain't like that. 

Didn't never give a cuss wherever I was at 

So I'm doin' middlin', but I jist sort o' feel 

Like I'd love to happen home and git a square meal. 

Sleep in a feather bed that lets you sink down, 

Have mother come and tuck the kiver all roun', 

Putt a hot iron for to warm your feet. 

Say a few words that is soothin' and sweet : 

Love to be back there ? Tell you I would ! — 

Back in old Mizzoury, where a feller feels good. 



BACK IN OLD MIZZOURY 59 



Back to old Mizzoury is where I want to go, 

Where the biggest rivers in the whole world flow, 

And the' ain't no signs for to keep off the grass. 

Nor any derned policeman with his double-derned sass, 

'N^ I can go a-fishin' with a pawpaw pole, 

Or swim stark naked in the old swimmin^ hole. 

Or holler if I want to Hke I used to could 

When I felt so happy and gay and good. 

Love to go back agin ? I should say ! 

Back in old Mizzoury, where a feller feels gay. 

Back in old Mizzoury is where I long to be. 
Golly ! but I^m hungry for to climb up a tree. 
Loaf in the cornfield and hear the men's jokes, 
'Tend a pickanick with the Sunday school folks. 
Jump on the turnin'-pole and skin the cat. 
Play town-ball with a homemade bat, 
Hunt hens' nests in the barn-loft hay 
And bury all the eggs for Easter day — 
Gee ! but Fd love to do jist what I did 
Back in old Mizzoury when I was a kid. 

Say Fm too old ? W'y, you don't know me ! 

Fm jist as young as I used to be. 

Whiskers and wrinkles don't count for a cent. 

S'posin' I am jist a little bit bent? 

Bein' in Mizzoury 'uld straighten me up 

'N' make me as chipper as a fresh buttercup. 

Fd be a daisy and a dandyline, 

Ownin' all the pasture and a-feelin' fine. 



60 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

Snortin' aroun' like a big yearlin' calf, 

Back in old Mizzoury — w'y, you make me laff ! 

Back for old Mizzoury is where Fm liniiV out. 
Listen when I git there and you'll hear me shout ! 
When I cross the drawbridge on the old Mis'sip, 
All the State'll listen to my "Hip ! hip ! hip ! 
Hooray for old Mizzoury ! hooray ! hooray ! hooray !' 
Here's the boy who's sorry he ever went away ; 
Here's the kid, the colonel, the cranky old galoot, 
Headin' home from Jersey on the bee-line route ; 
Here's the man a boy agin, jist a little tike 
Back in old Mizzoury, home agin in Pike ! 

Asbury Park, New Jersey, 1894. 



SI BRO WN'S PHILOSOPH Y 61 



Si Brown's Philosophy 



o 



LD SILAS BROWN'S philosophy 
Was just as cheerful as could be. 



*^I don't beheve a-tall," said Si, 
"In worryin' — no, sir, not I ! 
That sort o' thing ain't made for me. 
I jist take things as they come 'long, 
And if I can I sing a song, 
And if I can't I screw my gums 
And whistle till the music comes. 

"I never borry trouble ; I 
Have plenty of my own," said Si ; 
'^Enough to last me through the week 
And over Sunday, and I don't 
Ask any man to lend me more — 
Not if he ofifers it I won't. 
'Twill be a-plenty time to speak 
For that when I git trouble-pore. 

'^And mostly I've a mind," said Si, 
"That all your trouble's in your eye. 
If you'd jist settle down and think 
You're doin' well enough, and let 



62 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

Things go at that, I want to bet 
You'd never lose another wink 
O' sleep in worryin' about 
The bothers you can do without. 

"I take things as they come," said Si ; 
^'Don't count much on sweet by-and-by, 
Nor don't peek back with vain regrets. 
These days and what they bring along 
Are good enough ; so I say let's 
Jist jog along and sing a song 
And take what comes, and thank the Lord 
He don't send troubles by the cord." 

Old Silas Brown's philosophy 
Is good enough for you and me. 



THE OPERA HAT 63 



The Opera Hat 



I HAVE bought me an opera head-piece today, 
To wear with my swallow-tail coat to the play. 
As a citified chap I must keep in the style, 
So Fve got me a stovepipe adjustable tile. 
It^s a wonderful hat : 
You can press it down flat 
Without damage, as though on its crown you had sat. 

When I put the thing on (I had ordered the hack) 
And stood up where the mirror reflected me, "Jack," 
Said my wife, "you look perfectly lovely in that ; 
Fm so glad you have bought you an opera hat !" 

And I — I couldn't speak 

As I kissed her : my cheek 
Was wet with a tear, for my heart sprung a leak. 

Yes, my heart sprung a leak, for I thought of a day 
In the long, long ago and the far, far away. 
When a boy on a farm, with a dime that he earned 
Doing chores, bought a hat which a long time he'd 
yearned 

To possess — oh ! but that 
Was a wonderful hat, 
For it came back to shape, though you mashed it quite 
flat. 



64 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

Twas a hat made of straw, with a brim that was wide 
As a city girl's parasol ; it drooped at each side, 
And it flopped, as I ran, like the wings of a bird. 
Now my wife, I am sure, would pronounce it absurd ; 
But of Nellie, the lass 
By whose home I would pass, 
I thought with much pride, as I looked in the glass. 

I was sure she would say my new hat was ^*so sweet,'' 
And it made my young heart like a trip-hammer beat 
When I donned that big straw and went singing away 
To the upper creek bottom to help with the hay ; 
Yes, my heart sang a tong — 
It was sweet, it was strong — 
x\s down through the lane my bare feet ran along. 

Through the lane that was bordered with daisies 

bedewed — 
A beaded elixir divine that is brewed 
Every dawn, for the daylight to dabble and drink 
From the chalice of blossoms that roguishly wink ! 
Oh, my soul in its beams 
Was resplendent with dreams ; 
And how honeyed, how hallowed, that memory seems ! 

Why, of course I am happy up here in the crowd. 
As we sit at the play. My applause is as loud 
As the man's down in front who has never been glad 
With the joy of a barefooted, straw-hatted lad 

With a sweetheart, you know, 

In a blue calico. . . . 
They would smile at that costume up here at the show. 



THE OPERA HAT 65 



You remember it, Helen — my Nellie of old, 
My wife with a heart that is pure as the gold 
Of the tresses that, kissing your opera coat, 
Outglamor the jewels that gleam at your throat; 

You remember it, dear, 

And the straw hat so queer. 
And the lane, and the daisies, and — and — what ! a tear? 

There, now ! queen of hearts, you are missing the play ! 

It was long, long ago, it was far, far away, 

And our dreams are fulfilled. ... Of the world's 

ruddy wine 
We have drank, we are drinking. . . . It's famous 
and fine 

To be counted bon-ton. 
For when I was plain John 
And you Nell, these were things that we doted upon. 

Then we'll go back tomorrow — we'll take the first train, 
And we'll look for a straw-hatted lad in a lane, 
And a girl at a door with a broom in her hand. 
And the men in the hayfield, and father, and — and — 
Well, the opera hat 
You have praised so — it's that 
Has befog'gled me so I forget where I'm at ! 



66 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



The Jumpety-Jump 



LORDY! but Fm tired o' this jumpety-jump, 
This etarnal hustle for somethin' to eat, 
This git-up-and-dustin' and havin^ to hump 

Yourself like creation to keep on your feet ! 
Tm sick and Fm tired o^ the drudgin^ along — 
No time for a snooze and no time for a song; 
For it's everything hurry 
And everything worry 
And always a struggle and always a strife : 
Fd like to do nothin' the rest o' my life ! 

Gee ! but I hate it all wuss than the deuce — 

This grindin' and grindin' and grindin' away, 

Jist to keep grindin'. I say, what's the use ? 

Where's all the good o' the grind? Does it pay? 

What's the use toilin' and moilin' to find 

Food for the stummick while starvin' the mind ? 
For it's always a hustle 
And always a tussle, 

And never no end to the struggle and strife : 

Fd love to do nothin' the rest o' my life ! 

Gosh ! but Fd like to go out in the woods 

And loaf on the grass in the shade of a tree ; 



THE JUMPE TV-JUMP 67 

Nothin' to do but to gether the goods 

That nature pervides for the sparrers and me ; 
Open your mouth and git fat on fresh air, 
Don't give a dern for the clo'es that you wear, 

Think as you lay there 

You always can stay there — 
Never no struggle and never no strife : 
Jist to do nothin' the rest o' your Hfe ! 

Golly ! but what a delight to be free 

F'oni all the fool notions of civilized men : 

Bathe in God's blessin's stark naked and be 

Shin-deep in daisies, and learn f'om the wren 

How to be happy — forgit all the wrong. 

Have time for a snooze and have time for a song ; 
With nothin' to worry, 
No need for to hurry, 

No call to go back to the struggle and strife : 

Jist to do nothin' the rest o' my life ! 



68 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



A Letter to Brother 



AH, brother, don't you know, 
I long to turn and go 
Back where we used to be. 
At mother^s knee. 

I long to turn my back 
On all the world's mad wrack 
And go far leagues apart 
To mother's heart. 

I know that all the years 
Her faith, her prayers, her tears 
Have all been yours and mine — 
And yet I pine. 

I pine for that dear touch 
Of hands that meant so much 
On curly dreamful head 
In trundle-bed. 

I yearn for that sweet kiss — 
None other since, I wis, 
Hath given such respite 
From sorrow's blight. 



A LETTER TO BROTHER 69 

I will come back again ! 
We are no longer men, 
But only beardless boys 
With homely joys. 

I will come back, and we 
Shall sit at mother's knee 
And try to make her feel 
Our youth is real. 

The world's rude storm and fret 
We'll banish and forget, 
And by the dream beguiled 
Be each a child. 

We'll ask from mother's lips 
A tale of seas and ships 
And cities, oh, so far 
From where we are ! 

We'll follow on the track 
Of Giant-Killer Jack ; 
Red Riding-Hood's grim tale 
Shall make us quail. 

And then — and then, mayhap 
I, being a tiny chap, 
Shall fall asleep and dream 
Of sweets supreme. 

Doughnuts, and ginger-bread, 
And apples rosy red. 



70 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



And hazel-nuts, and pies 
Broad as the skies ! 

And something else — ah, yes ! 
The mother-hand's caress ; 
No dream that touch, but felt 
Here, where I've knelt ! 

New London, Connecticut, 1899. 



A T LINCOLN'S TOMB 71 



At Lincoln's Tomb 



(Being the Reminiscences of the Hon. Jason Petti- 
grew, of Calhoun County, 111., in 1895.) 



ABE LINCOLN? Wull, I reckon ! Not a mile f^om 
where we be, 
Right here in SpringfielV" Illinoise, Abe used to room 

wdth me. 
He represented Sangamon, I tried it for Calhoun, 
And me and Abe was cronies then ; 1^1 not forgit it soon. 

Lll not forgit them happy days we used to sort o' batch 
Together in a little room that didn't have no latch 
To keep the other fellers out that liked to come and stay 
And hear them dasted funny things Abe Lincoln used 
to say. 

Them days Abe Lincoln and myself was pore as anything. 
Job's turkey wasn't porer, but we used to lafif and sing, 
And Abe was clean chuck full o' fun ; but he was sharp 

as tacks, 
For that there comic face o' his'n was fortyfied with fac's. 



See appendix. 



72 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIK E 

Some fellers used to laff at Abe because his boots and 

pants 
Appeared to be on distant terms; but when he'd git a 

chance 
He'd give 'em sich a drubbin' that they'd clean forgit his 

looks, 
For Abe made up in common sense the things he lacked 

in books. 

Wull, nex' election I got beat, and Abe come back alone ; 
I kep' a-clinkin' on the farm, pervidin' for my own. 
You see, I had a woman, and two twins that called me 

paw; 
And Abe, he kep' a-clinkin', too, at politics and law. 

I didn't hear much more of Abe out there in old Calhoun, 

For I was out o' politics and kinder out o' chune 

With things that happened; but 'way back Fd named 

my two twin boys — 
One Abraham, one Lincoln ; finest team in Illinoise ! 

Wull, here one day I read that Abe's among the candi- 
dates 

(My old friend Abe!) for President o' these United 
States ; 

And though I had the rheumatiz and felt run down and 
blue, 

I entered politics agin and helped to pull him through. 

And when nex' spring he called for men to fetch their 
grit and guns 



AT LINCOLN'S TOMB 73 

And keep the Ship o' State afloat, I sent him both my 

sons, 
And would V gone mj^self and loved to make the bullets 

whiz 
^F it hadn't b'en I couldn't walk account o' rheumatiz. 

Wull, Abe — my little Abe, I mean — he started out with 

Grant ; 
They buried him at Shiloh. . . . Excuse me, but 

I can't 
Help feelin' father-like, you know, for them was likely 

boys ; 
The' wasn't two another sich that went f'om Illinoise ! 

And Lincoln — my son Lincoln — he went on by his self, 
A-grievin' for his brother Abe they'd laid upon the shelf. 
And when he come to Vicksburg he was all thrashed 

out and sick ; 
And yit, when there was fightin'. Link fit right in the 

thick. 

One night afore them Rebel guns my pore boy went to 

sleep 
On picket dooty. . . . No, sir; 'tain't the shame 

that makes me weep : 
It's how Abe Lincoln, President, at Washin'ton, D. C, 
Had time to ricolleck the days he used to room with me ! 

For don't you know I wrote to him they'd sentenced to 

be shot 
His namesake, Lincoln Pettigrew, in shame to die and 

rot; 



74 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 



The son o' his old crony, and the last o' my twin boys 
He used to plague me so about, at SpringfieF, lUinoise. 

Did he? Did Abe? WuU, now, he sent a telegraph so 

quick 
It burnt them bottles on the poles and made the lightnin' 

sick! 
'1 pardon Lincoln Pettigrew. A. Lincoln, President." 
The boy has got that paper yit, the telegraph Abe sent. 

I guess I knowed Abe Lincoln ! and now Fve come down 
here — 

Firs' time I b'en in Springfiel' for nigh on sixty year— 

To see his grave and tombstone, because ... be- 
cause, you see. 

We legislated in cahoots, Abe Lincoln did, and me. 



JIST TO BE CONTENTED 75 



list to Be Contented 

OH, it's jist to be contented 
With the blessed things you've got 
Jist jog along and sing a song, 

Jist strike an easy trot ; 
For that's the only happiness 
That ever comes to folks, I guess. 

There ain't no use a-cryin' — 

Only makes your eyes look bad ; 

So dry your tears and doff your fears 
And make-believe be glad ; 

For if you laff and joke awhile 

Til soon come easy for to smile. 

Some folks delight in lookin' 
On the darker side o' things ; 

But I tell you the skies are blue 
More times than black, by jings ! 

So what's the use to borry care. 

When comfort 's gratis ever' where ? 

So, it's jist to be contented 

With whatever good things be, 

Nor try to soar for somethin' more — 
Jist gobble what you see, 

And I'll bet ten to one for odds 

You'll swig the nectar of the gods ! 



76 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



In a Back Country Town 



THIS is the town — the old slow town. 
Why, nothing ever happens here ; 
The same dull folk go up and down 

The same dull streets from year to year ; 
And yet — and yet I must allow 
There^s something brings me hither now. 

The great world thunders by unheard. 

Here there is neither sound nor sign 
Of all its life. The humming-bird 

Hums on. Unconscious rove the kine. 
The people walk, or sleep. Nowhere 
Is felt the great world's throb and stir. 

Ah, denizen of dazzling street 
Where life's illusion scintillates ! 

Of hall and wall and gay retreat, 
Dweller within the city's gates — 

Why quit such gorgeous state and come 

To this old Town of Tedium ? 

Is it because on yonder hill. 
Behind the elm tree bowed in woe, 

The old brown house is standing still 
Where lived the one who loved you so ? 



IN A BACK COUNTRY TOWN 77 



Is it because you long to see 
The places where She used to be? 

Why come I hither ? — heart, confess ! 

So — ^tis because in this old town 
I last saw Her, whose lips to press 

I would to dreamless dust go down- 
To clasp and kiss once more as then. 
Might She but live and love again. 



78 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



The Old Blue Spelling-Book 



AWAY up in the garret, where the children love to 
play, 

I found a wondrous talisman that made me young today ; 

The wrinkles quit my forehead, and my silvered hair to 
gold 

Was altered in a twinkling as it used to be of old ; 

All manhood's cares I cast away, all troublous thoughts 
forsook, 

z^nd conned anew as I used to do this old blue spelling- 
book. 

I stood up in the schoolroom with the children in a row 
(The teacher always chalked a mark which we were 

meant to toe) ; 
But somehow Billy Barlow's feet were always out of line, 
And Jerry Sloan was very prone with his to tread on mine 
W^hen Rosie Lee made eyes at me instead of at himself — 
I knew she did it roguishly, the cunning little elf ; 
Thoiigh I forgive her freely now, so dainty does she look 
As I go back life's winding track to this old spelling- 
book. 



THE OLD BLUB SPELLING-BOOK 79 

There was another, nameless here, who always ''turned 

me down.'^ 
Her hair in amber ringlets hung, her bonny eyes were 

brown. 
She wore a checkered apron and a bow of ribbon red, 
x\nd if she deigned to glance at me ^twould turn my 

silly head. 
Small wonder, then, that I forgot how simplest words 

were spelt 
When she was "Next !'^ I missed them all — though less 

chagrin I felt 
Than when, in sterner years to come, love put a word, 

and then, 
Knowing her lesson perfectly, she turned me down again. 



80 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



On Lonesome Avenue 



I LIVE on Lonesome Avenue 
Since Martha Wilson moved away ; 
I miss her merry eyes of blue, 

The music of her roundelay ; 
I miss her cheery words, I miss — 
It soothed me so — her gentle touch ; 
But oh ! I miss so much, so much 
The warmth and wonder of her kiss ! 

I marvel why she moved away — 
My old true nurse who loved me so, 

The maiden mother, wrinkled, gray. 
But heart of June-time roses' blow ! 

I wonder where she's wandered to. 
Beyond the rim of things that be. 
And does she dwell forlorn like me 

Elsewhere on Lonesome Avenue? 

'Twas Time that took her— Time, the thief 
That takes our many joys away, 

And leaves us loneliness and grief 
And blinding bitterness for pay. 

'Tis Time has made the cheeks she kissed 
A bearded grown-up's visage stern 



ON LONESOME A VENUE 81 

And lured her never to return, 
Beyond the barriers of the mist. 

And so on Lonesome Avenue 

I bide with Memory for mate, 
Serene and sweet, and fond and true, 

To fend me 'gainst accoutered fate ; 
But still I long for childhood's feet 

To bear me back o'er rose and thorn 

To that old house where I was born, 
On far-away Companion Street. 

And still I yearn for her, for her 

Who loved me as a little child. 
Who knew my heart without a blur, 

But innocent and undefiled ; 
No love so loyal, none so true 

As humble Martha Wilson's ere 

She went away and left me here 
Alone on Lonesome Avenue. 



POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



Wood Scents 



OH ! the pennyroyal scent 
And the broken sassafras, 
And the snappy pawpaw blent 

With the mint of the morass ! 
You can have your smell of roses 
In the city garden closes ; 
But for me— well, thanks ! Til take 
Perfumes with the country Jake. 

Ah, this goody-woody smell 

Draws me back to boyhood days, 
When I used to dream and dwell 

Where the misty meadow's haze 
Fashioned mighty towers and castles, 
And the bees were all my vassals, 
Bringing honey for my mouth, 
With the savor of the South. 

Let me stay here, let me lie 

Here along the forest edge ; 
Not a wall to shut the sky 

From my vision, not a ledge 
Save the clififs of yonder river. 
Where the willows wave and quiver ; 
Let me smell the woods, and make- 
B'lieve Pm still a country Jake. 



WISHIN' FOR FISHIN' 83 



Wishin' for Fishin' 



GEE ! Tve been a-wisliin' 
All this blessed week 
For to go a-fishin' 

Down on Possum Creek. 

Used to dig my bait there 

In the pasture lot, 
Whar the worms ^uld wait there 

Jist for to be got. 

Used to ketch my minners 

In a skeeter net — 
Bait for big fish dinners, 

Best they ever et ! 

WaVt no frills nor foolin' — 
Jist sot down somewhar 

That the fish was schoolin' 
'Long a sandy bar. 

Had a pawpaw sapplin' 

For a fishin' pole, 
Two-three hooks for grapplin' 

So's to git 'em whole. 



84 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

Chunk o' lead for groundin' — 
None yer reels nor these 

Hifalutin-soundin' 

Things ye sometimes sees. 

Golly ! how the perches 
Bite them fishin' worms ! 

How that fish-pole lurches ! 
How that beauty squirms ! 

Takes me back there sorter, 

Jist to rickollect ; 
Seems to me I orter 

Go today, I s'pect. 

Yes, I'm goin' fishin' ! 

What's the use to work? 
See that line a-swishin' ! 

Jiminy ! what a jerk ! 



THE THINGS WORTH WHILE 85 



The Things Worth While 



OH, the things worth while ! the things worth while ! 
The winning word of kindness that's the artist of 

a smile ; 
The sunny smile that sparkles, reflecting in its beams 
The largess of devotion and the liberty of dreams ; 
The willing ear that hearkens to the harmonies of bees 
That hum and birds that twitter in the blossoms and the 

trees ; 
The happy heart responsive to the touch of kindly hands 
That beckon up and onward to the lovely Lotus lands. 

Yea, the things worth while ! the things worth while ! 
The cheery thoughts we cherish, with naught of gloom 

or guile ; 
The wholesome hope of heaven, and the sweet surcease 

of care 
We find in lowly homesteads, for love makes heaven 

there ! 
The lisping children's prattle ; the mother's croon ; the 

dear, 
Delicious warmth of feeling in the fireside's rosy cheer, 
When the mellow lamp is lighted and the apples on the 

hearth 
Are sizzling in the radiance of the rarest place on earth. 



86 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

Ah, the things worth while ! the things worth while ! 
The tender recollection of the seat upon the stile, 
When katydids were calling and the owlet^s answer shrill 
Grew mellow as it mingled with the music of the mill ; 
The buoyant dreams that bubbled like the water in the 

race; 
The lifting inspiration of an unforgotten face; 
The todl, by sweet devotion made marvelously light ; 
Love, and its living fervor, its mystery, its might! 

So, the things worth while ! the things worth while ! 
Let's garner them and guard them, and rear a radiant pile 
Of golden deeds and memories, with diamond hopes im- 

pearled — 
A castle made impregnable against the warring world, 
Wherein our days shall blossom, our nights shall bloom 

with stars — 
And let go by the malice, the strife that maims and mars : 
So life's serener visions shall all the hours beguile, 
If only we shall treasure just the things worth while. 



IN PRAISE OF THE PRESENT 87 



In Praise of the Present 



POETS there be who tune their lyres to Days of 
Long Ago 
And sing a song of sentiment in measures sad and slow. 
To them the golden age is past, the golden fleece is 

clipped, 
The rose of pleasure hath been plucked, the cup of joy- 

ance sipped ; 
They live in longing for the lost, the dead of Might Have 

Been — 
But I, a bard most practical, count all such singing sin. 
To me These Days, these present days. 
Have fertile fields and flowery ways 
Wherein my fancy fondly strays ; 
And if I had a song to sing, Td sing about These Days. 

And bards there be who rave a stave concerning Days 

To Be, 
When all things shall be lovely and luxuriant and free, 
When Joy shall reach her chalice down to thirsty mortal 

lip 
And certain rare elected ones to drunkenness shall sip ; 
The bud has yet to blossom and the honey to be stored 
Ere hungry souls may sit them down and sweep the 

festal board. 



88 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

But as for me, I say These Days 
Hold pastures where my soul may graze 
And drink delights and gather bays ; 
And if I knew a stave to rave, Td rave about These Days. 

To me These Days are golden-tipped with goodly 

thoughts and things. 
And Opportunity but waits to spread her splendid wings 
At my command, to bear me up and make my vision 

wide. 
That I may sweep the height, the deep, and know them 

deified I 
The Golden Days of Long Ago, the Golden Days To Be 
Are not so wonderful by half as These Days are to me ; 
And so These Days, these golden days. 
To me are rich with wine and maize 
And minstrel-sweet with harvest lays ; 
And were I piping Pan himself, Fd pipe about These 
Days. 



THE CHEERFUL HEART 89 



The Cheerful Heart 



T ASK not gold 
1 To hoard and hold 

Beyond my need from day to day ; 
Nor wealth of lands 
My life demands, 
Nor stocks and bonds to file away, 
Nor costly trophies of the mart. 

And yet to riches I aspire, 

One splendid jewel I desire — 
Give me, O God, a cheerful heart ! 

This jewel mine, 

I shall not pine. 
Nor seek nor strive for lordly store ; 

^Tis wealth itself. 

Nor power nor pelf 
Can add to its possessor more ; 
From it shall living fountains start 

To pave my path with gorgeous flowers 
I crave the magic of its powers — 
Give me, O God, a cheerful heart! 

Let others strive 
And think they thrive 



90 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

In getting things that must decay ; 
Of these bereft 
They may be left 
Unfortressed in an evil day, 
Unarmed against the spoiler's dart. 
Contentment such protection brings 
I shall be more secure than kings. 
Give me, O God, a cheerful heart ! 

The cheerful heart 

That plays its part 
Exultant, whatsoe'er beset, 

Nor frets nor fumes 

In sullen glooms 
That make disaster darker yet : 
Be this my wealth, and if the mart 
Shall yield me less than others win, 
I still have greater store within. 
Give me, O God, a cheerful heart ! 



THE BOY WHO HAS NO SANTA CLAUS 91 



The Boy Who Has No Santa Glaus 



THE boy who has no Santa Claus — 
So wistful, oh ! so wan he looks 
Through wondrous windows, making pause 

To gloat upon the picture books, 
The Giant-Killer, Mother Goose : 
Alas ! poor urchin, what^s the use ? 

I saw him standing yesternight, 
His nose against the frosty pane. 

Enamored of the fairy sight — 
So fond, so friendless, oh! so fain 

To grasp and beat the painted drum ! 

He dreamed of seeing Santa come. 

So long he stood and looked within 

I thought his yearning gaze must charm 

The stalwart soldier made of tin 

To rise and follow through the storm, 

And, standing guard above him, make 

His dream come true ere he awake. 

The jumping-jack, the candy-cane, 
The bugle and the hobby-horse — 



92 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 

I'd think they would be sick with pain 

And sorrowful with deep remorse 
Because they did not steal away 
And in his squalid garret stay. 

The boy who has no Santa Claus — 
Oh, sadder far his sorrow is 

Than all our grown-up woes, because 
We have no wishes such as his : 

The useless yearn of childhood, oh ! 

We cannot feel, we cannot know. 

O Little Johnny Loney Boy, 
Fm sad and sorry for you, so ! 

You shouldn't miss the perfect joy 
Of Christmas, for the years are slow ! 

If Fd the making of the laws 

I'd give each boy a Santa Claus. 



MY FOND COQUETTE 93 



My Fond Coquette 

MY fancy knows a fond coquette 
Who made mine amorous youth complete ; 
On Hfe's mosaic echoes yet 
The pattering laughter of her feet. 

Her voice was poesy unkenned 

Of transient bard that sings and dies, 

Her language such as seraphs blend 
In praiseful hymn beyond the skies. 

God knows, if God knows anything, 

The budded virtues in her heart 
Bloomed the gay blossoms she did fling 

In challenge of Dan Cupid's dart. 

Too soon she went to other ways, 

For life is Hfe and fate is fate ; 
But still her halcyon memory stays, 

And I am not all desolate. 

For wheresoever I may wend, 

O'er thorns that pierce and sweets that bloom, 
This coy coquette shall still defend 

My heart from melancholy's doom. 

My genial, joyous, fond coquette, 

Who turned my bitter bread to sweet, — 

Through life's dim halls I hearken yet 
The failing music of her feet. 



94 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



Just to Be Loved 



JUST to be loved. That's all ! 
What else is worth possessing ? 
Just to be loved by one beloved — 
The robe and crown of blessing ! 

Just to be held more dear 

Than aught in earth or heaven 

Else, — is it not God's plan and plot 
Our life with sweets to leaven ? 

Just to esteem one best, 

Most servable and splendid, — 

May we not leave to fate the rest 
If life be thus attended ? 

Just to be loved. No more 
Beseech the gods to grant us : 

So stand we fast, nor fear the blast, 
While sovereign seas enchant us. 



EUGENE FIELD 95 



Eugene Field 



DELIGHTFUL ancient in a modern guise, 
He walked with Horace under halcyon skies. 
He was the verdure and the vine and fruit 
Of gardens romping children love to loot ; 
A constant and reiterant surprise 
Like woodland echoes, now his voice is mute. 

In him did nature mould the merry clay 
To smile with smilers, gayest of the gay ; 
And yet in turn to trickle with a tear 
The saddest face of sorrow's yesteryear : 
A jester at the feast, and then away 
To fashion posies for a baby's bier. 

The world his toy and all the stars his own, 
He taught that men are only children grown. 
He played with things that others dare not touch 
Lest with unholy finger-tips they smutch. 
Leaving to wrangling sects the great unknown, 
His creed was meagre, though his faith was much. 

The children's poet shall we name him, then? 
As such he was the laureate of men. 
His memory green we keep, say not adieu — 
The genial 'Gene whom all men loved that knew; 
Whose spirit, fled too soon this mortal ken, 
Amongst the immortals laughs with me and you. 



96 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 



A Lyric of Tears and Laughter 



OH, let us weep ! 
Let bitter brine 
Of agony steep 
The heart, let sorrow 
To gloom consign 
The day and morrow ! 

Ah, let us weep ! 
Let misery borrow 
From hells to be. 
Plunder the sea. 
Ransack the earth 
For cares that creep : 
So let us weep 
At winged mirth ! 

Nay, let us laugh ! 

Let golden joyance 

Fly light as chaff 

Up to the sky ! 

Who knows annoyance? 

Who thinks to sigh? 



A LYRIC OF TEARS AND LAUGHTER 97 

Ha, let us laugh ! 
Let merry laughter 
Shiver the air 
And shake the rafter i 
The world is fair, 
Here and hereafter : 
So let us laugh 
At crawling care ! 



98 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 



Junetime 



CAN the heart be sad 
When the world is glad 
And the smile of God 
Makes the pregnant sod 
Mother of flowers 
In the bridal bowers 
Of the Junetime ? 

What ! 
Has the soul forgot 
What the sense has not? 
Does it not remember? 
Is the soul December 
When the world is June ? 

Ah ! soon, too soon 
Will the flowertime pass 
And the myriad grass 
Be brown and sere ! 

Yet we shall not fear, 
For we know, ah, sweet ! 
That another year 
Will the tale repeat 
And the flowers anew 
Smile up to God 
From the mother-sod. 
I rejoice ! Don't you ? 



THE MAIDEN POESY 99 



The Maiden Poesy 



I FOUND her virgin on the hills, 
My love who sings and laughs and weeps, 
Twin-sister to the songful rills 
And daughter of the deeps. 

She led me forth, she lured me far 

Through fairy woodlands gay with green, 

Where nymphs of nameless beauty are 
And she is Fairy Queen. 

Her face is fair, her eye is bright, 

And when I kiss her lips of dawn 
I drink potations of delight 

From founts of Aidenn drawn. 

She is so pure, she is so true 

That when I touch her lily hand 
A spirit thrills me through and through 

I may not understand. 

She weeps with me when I am sad ; 

She joins me in the jocund laugh ; 
She smiles to me — my heart is glad — 

Gloom lifts away like chafif. 

L.ofC. 



100 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 



And so I dwell with her, set round 
With daisied splendor, she and I 

A love-wed king and queen uncrowned, 
Yet sovereign as the sky. 

And so I wander where she wills ; 

To her my heart exultant leaps : 
Twin-sister to the songful rills 
And daughter of the deeps. 



A L YRIC OF INTERL UDES 101 



A Lyric of Interludes 



AH, restful interludes of peace — 
White foam upon the furious waves 
Green step between the graves : 

Dear nooning hour of glad release 
From irksome toil in thorny ways 
Which burdens all our days : 

Infrequent flashes from the clouds 
That gloom our being's firmament 
And drink our soul's content : 

Blossoms upon the breasts of shrouds 
Wherewith we cover up and hide 
Our past selves that have died : 

Calm eve between the battle fought 
And one to be — with honeyed breath 
Unmindful of the death : 

Delicious hours of rest from thought — 
Sweet respite from the doom of pain 
That racks and rends the brain : — 



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I welcome ye, I woo your spell ! 

Let hope's high star grow wildly bright 
And fancy's wing be light. 

Let songs arise and music swell 
From waking love's delirious lute 
And lips that long were mute. 

For life not all is soothful ease, 
And that unbidden hour must come 
When lute and lip are dumb. 

So let us haply strive in these 
Alternate spirit-calms to rise 
And kiss the stooping skies. 



THE MYSTERY 103 



The Mystery 



L 



IFE is a goblet bubbling to the brim : 

One quaffs the nectar frothing round the rim 
Sweet is it unto him! 



One deeper drinks until his lips do meet 
The dregs, but does not drink the cup complete : 
It is a bitter-sweet! 

One drains the poison dregs that seep and fall 
Through to the bottom — drains them — that is all 
Tis bitterness and gall ! 

We know not why it is, — we are not told ; 
But may not this some consolation hold : — 
The goblet is of gold ! 



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A Vision of Fraternity 



I DREAMED that once again mine eyes — 
Long shut to hope's beflowered ways- 
Had gUmpsed a dawn of radiant dyes, 

Had gathered once again the rays 
That flush the fond Utopian skies. 

Upon my vision vaguely broke 

The glamor of ideal truth ; 
Angels of light appeared and spoke 

The trusted tenets of my youth, 
And hope again within me woke. 

Methought the universe was crowned 
With light as of a thousand suns. 

Streaming from centre unto bound 
Of brute and human life that runs 

The arc of ancient worlds around. 

I looked upon the iron link: 

It parted, and the chain was rent. 

No more was heard its horrid clink 
Upon the limbs of captives, bent 

By torture unto Lethe's brink. 



A VISION OF FRATERNITY 105 

No cross was raised : no banner waved : 

No prison bars bedimmed the light : 
No rigid law was deep engraved, 

Defining wrong, defending right: 
No scaffold from the ruin saved. 

But everywhere — on every side — 

Tall spires of stately Reason rose. 
Temples of Justice builded wide, 

Topping the utmost Alpine snows : 
Man's Christly conscience deified. 

I saw that idle mastery, bound 

And throneless, long had passed away, 
And honest labor, robed and crowned. 

And laureled with the victor's bay. 
Its high reward at last had found. 

No rush for gold : no fawning greed : 

Man loved his neighbor as himself. 
And hesitated not to deed 

Away his treasure-trove of pelf 
When beckoned by the hand of need. 

Ah, love was free to all mankind 

And maidens pure as Eve at birth. 
And men required no search to find 

Instinctive elements of worth 
And pristine purities of mind. 



106 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

So moved the world through space and time : 
So lived the monarchs of the land — 

True brothers all in love sublime, 

Empowered the passions to command, 

Annihilating pain and crime. 

Love held the nectared chalice up 

To Virtue's lips, who sipped the draught : 

Beauty the overflowing cup 

Of life's refined elixir quaffed: 

So faith grew strong at every sup. 

I hear rude sounds that vex my sleep ! 

Still do I slumber on and dream: 
And who would make me from my deep 

But fond delusion, whilst I deem 
That man no more shall want and weep? 



LIBERTY AND LOVE 107 



Liberty and Love 



SUNSHINE and roses, 
Open sky above, 
Pure air and perfume, 
Liberty and love! 

Liberty to loiter 

Here among the trees, 
Sister to the songbirds. 

Brother to the bees! 

You and I together, 
Comrades and friends. 

So let us linger 
Till sweet life ends! 



108 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 



Personality 



OUT of the mad and maundering crowd 
That jostles on Ambition Street, 
Where every lip is harsh and loud, 

I guide mine individual feet, 
On life's serener purpose bent, 
Through quiet suburbs named Content. 

Not mine the ribaldry and roar 

Where pigmies clash and puppets be! 

Me the melodious voices lure 
To meadows by the sibilant sea, 

Where deeply I may breathe the balm 

Of restful interludes of calm. 

Mine freedom is and unrestraint, 
Nor binding task, nor bitter bread. 

Nor cruel gibe, nor peevish plaint. 
But song and solitude instead, 

And opportunity to rise 

God-statured to the starry skies ! 



A MOUNTAIN FANCY 109 



A Mountain Fancy 



RANGE on range the mountains rise 
With dimming azure to the skies. 
I think their topmost tufted sods 
Are trodden by the feet of gods, 
And the thin pure airs that hover 
Over the crags and clefted places 
Are drunk by many an angel lover 
Come down from heaven to view again, 
From far above the marts of men, 
The unforgotten loved ones' faces. 



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An Old Man's Comrades 



NAY, pity not, for I am not alone ! 
Comrades have I more beautiful and true 
Than those who, living, walk and talk with you : 
Sweet visitants I know are all mine own ! 
They touch my hands out of the spirit zone, 
Out of the mist of memory, the dew 
Of vanished mornings, these my faithful few. 
More loving and still more delightful grown ! 

For in my dreams I live, and here with me 

Sit those who loved me when my beard was brown 

Six prattling children clamor for my knee. 
And one fond woman, whose imperial crown 

Of golden hair still glows a diadem, 

Quits her high star to fondle me and them ! 



A LOVER'S RHAPSODY 111 



A Lover's Rhapsody 



ROSE-SCENT and star-gleam, 
Silver o' the dew, 
Spice balm and night calm — 
And you, dear, you! 

Liberty, the largess 

Of dreams come true, 
Noon o' night and Luna-light, 

And you» sweet, you ! 

Faith and fulfillment — 

The true soul's due, 
Silent lips in soul-eclipse 

With you, love, you ! 

Hope, yea, possession. 

And all things new, 
Whirled away (the world away) 

With you, dear, you ! 



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Monuments 



WE are bronze-molders, hewers of stone, 
To placate sorrow and ease her moan ; 
Masons of memory, skilled in the craft. 
Yet ever and ever old Fate hath laughed — 
Mocked and laughed at our love that strives 
To light a halo for burnt-out lives. 

Fools are we who tread on a star : 

Our pigmy vision discerns not far. 

We look to the earth : truth looks to the sky— 

From the small to the vast, from the low to the high ; 

Forgetting the purport of inner grace. 

We chisel a form or paint a face ; 

To the hills and hollows we blazon a name : 

The gods lean downward and cry, "For shame !" 

What is the deed that under the sun 
In his period's fullness the man hath done ? 
What is the work his hand achieved? 
Duplicate that, and ye had not grieved! 
For the work is the man as the man survives. 
The diamond cinder of burnt-out lives. 

The paint will crumble, the bronze be beat 
To some base end in the furnace heat. 
Only the work to the years insures : 
The marble passes, the deed endures. 



THE NEW THOUGHT 113 



The New Thought 



IT grows of the mists of the gioainiiig, 
Out of the dusk of desire, 
With scintillant starshine foaming 
And fresh with ethereal fire ; 
It mixes the elements, molding 
Form out of orderless things, 
Order from chaos, holding 

The might of the world in its wings — 
As it sw^eeps up the steeps, 

Clearing the summits gained 
By the past : for the New Thought waxeth 
And the old has waned. 

It is great with the greatness solely 

Of liberty learned of the vast, 
That taketh and giveth wholly 

The power of the infinite blast 
To smite and to scourge and to chasten, 

To conquer the ranks of wrong. 
To strangle the darkness and hasten 
The days of the light along — 

Winning strength till at length 
Speeding the larger days 
Of the race : for the New Thought quickens 
And the old decays. 



114 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

Stern truth is the forceful lever 
That makes its pinions strong". 
And hope is the heightening fever 

That bears it blazing along. 
It cleaves the hindering masses 

Of murk with a terrible sword. 
And strikes from the clouds as it passes 
The latent lightnings stored — 
Till the might leaps to light 
Out of the dreamful bed 
Of the years : for the New Thought liveth 
And the old is dead. 

And men shall be bold to embrace it 

In warmth of desire and delight 
Of lovers who kiss, and shall place it 

Supreme on the sovereignmost height 
To blossom a dawn to the waiting 

Chill world in the darkness drowned 
And mad with the mutual hating 
Of serpents that slime the ground — 
Till unfurled to the world 

Banners of gorgeous light 
Shall appear: for the New Thought's noonday 
And the old is night. 

It shall sunder the shackles of ages 

That fetter the strong man down, 
And death shall be tyranny's wages 

And the laurel supplant the crown : 



THE NEW THOUGHT 115 

And the people, the sovereign people, 
Shall rule from the sea to the sea, 
And the chain shall rot in its staple 
And life worth living" be. 

Haply then maids and men, 
Given to love's sweet joys. 
Shall be pure : for the New Thought maketh 
And the old destroys. 

It shall enter the hells of the homeless 

Like the cleansing light of the sun, 
And never a head shall be domeless 

Ayemore while the rivers run ; 

It shall pierce to the pestilent city 

\\'here Luxury drives the weak, 

And forth from the heart of Pity 

Shall wakening Justice speak ; 

And the pale lip shall w^ail 

Never again so gaunt 
For a crust: for the New Thought's plenty 

And the old is want. 

« 

And no man shall filch from his neighbor 

Or find that his neighbor's hand 
Hath plundered the fruit of his labor 

Or garnered the gift of his land : 
I'^ut temples and towers shall he rear him. 

And marvelous tomes shall he write, 
And the ages to come shall revere him 

And bless him for fi eedom and licht : 



116 POEMS ALL THE WAY FROM PIKE 

And his soul shall be whole, 

Freed of the baneful doom 
Of the old : for the New Thought's glory 

And the old is gloom. 

Oh, this is a dream of the morrow? 

Bnt ye know that the dream is deep 
And dowered with the truths that borrow 

No fantasies out of sleep ; 
L'or the world not yet grow^n hoary 
Shall forget its childhood's wrong", 
And then shall the lowliest story 
Be as one with the loftiest song ; 
Then shall might yield to right, 

Beacons shall blaze above 
Hailing on : for the old thought's Avarice 
And the New Thought Love ! 



THE THREE GO AGES J 17 



The Three Oo Ages 



LITTLE Goo-Goo 
Is a pulpy mite 
With big eyes two 

Expressionless quite, 
And two tiny hands 

With nothing- to do. 
I pity her, poor thing ! 
Don't you? 

Little Boo-Hoo 

Is a sprightly thing 

With bright eyes blue 
h\\A a tongue to sing ; 

But she cries instead 
The whole day through. 

I hate her, naughty thing! 
Don't you ? 

Little Coo- Woo 

Is just sixteen. 
With dream-eyes true 

And a mouth serene ; 
Her cheeks are fresh 

As new-fallen dew. 
I love her, pretty thing! 
Don't you? 



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A Lyric of Desires and Dreams 



FLASH, O mighty fires 
Of divine desires ! 
Flow, majestic streams 
Of diviner dreams ! 
Never slander's breath. 
Cold as blasts of death, 
May bedim your glow ; 
Not the ice of doubt 
Freezing round about 
May suspend your flow. 

Flash unto the east, 
Flow unto the west. 
North and south, nor rest 
Till the greatest, least. 
Drink of you and take 
Flame of you and flush 
To the north and south. 
East and west, and slake 
In your nectars lush 
Thirsts of every mouth ! 



^ L YRIC OF DESIRES AND DREAMS 



119 



Flash and flow, nor fail 
Till the groping soul 
Toppling- on the brink 
Of eternal wail, 
Findcth light and drink 
And aspireth on 
To the shining goal 
Of enduring dawn ! 



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Henry George Memorial Verses 

AT final verdict Fate is just 
And doth the living laurel twine 
For what is true, and doth consign 
The false forever to the dust. 

There lives some hero of the wars 
Or monied monarch of the street : 
Behold — we worship at his feet, 

Or flash his valor to the stars. 

Circle the planet with his name 

And shake the stars in his applause, — 
Unless he wrought in righteous cause 

He has not won enduring fame. 

But he whose charity is strong 

To make him look beyond himself, 
Beyond the greed for power or pelf, 

To love the right and hate the wrong, — 

For him the willing laurel wreathes ; 
His helpful deeds his worth proclaim 
From land to land, until his name 

Is sweet on every wind that breathes. 

For him shall quenchless beacons flame. 
And the eternal stars shall shed 
Eternal lustre on his head 

And light him to a living fame. 



THE WINNERS OF LAURELS Vl\ 



The Winners of Laurels 



HONORS cannot be told on beads, nor counted 
By medals on the breast, nor measured yet 
By breadth of victories won or heights surmounted, 

But by the adversaries boldly met 
And forced to issue — of defeat or winning 
It matters not: who bravely bears a hand, 
Though unachieved the w^ork of his beginning, 
Earns the undoubted laurels of the land. 

Heroes there be whose deeds remain unspoken, 

Unbartered to the nations, grander far 
Than some who wear high honor's garish token 

And captivate men's gazes like a star : 
Heroes of heart, who labor in the quiet 

And lowly ways to alleviate distress, 
Knowing full well that fate's remorseless fiat 

Foredooms their deeds to dull forgetfulness. 

\Ve honor overmuch the men who quarrel 

And make the world's great brawls and break the 
hearts 
Of faithful women — better bind the laurel 

About the brows of soldiers in the marts. 



122 POEMS ALL THE WAY EROM PIKE 

Of warriors who tilt in bladeless tourneys 
On bloodless fields, nor slay their fellow-men, 

But lift them up and help them on their journeys 
And suffer for their sake and strive again. 

Then let me lift one song" above the rumble 

Of cannon-boom that vaunts the vulgar great, 
One praiseful paean for the heroes humble 

Who fight unarmed against accoutered fate. 
The passive metal of their lives is hammered 

Upon the wailing anvil of despair: 
For them no torch is burned, no bell is clamored : 

God only holds them great and hails them fair. 



NEVER MEWn ! 



Never Mind! 



WHAT though fate be harsh, and fill 
Every breeze with words that kill, 
Every wind that whistles past 
With a noxious breath to blast? 
^lay we not go forth and fare 
With the souls that do and dare? 
Never mind ! 

Shall we craven be and quail — 
Cowards who deserve to fail. 
Conquered by adverse acclaim 
Of vociferous taunt and blame ? 
Are we not sufficient, strong 
For defiance with a song ? 
Never mind ! 

Who shall dare oppose the soul 
Primed and poised with self-control? 
What adversity avail 
'Gainst the Will that will not fail ? 
Hearts of iron scorn the gyve! 
Opportunity's alive ! 
Never mind ! 



124 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM lUKE 

Wherefore shall the spirit sink . 
Forceless while the heavens drink 
Inspiration from the cloud? 
Wherefore shall the soul be bowed, 
Bludgeoned though it be and bruised, 
Menaced, thwarted and confused? 
Never mind ! 

Triumph tingles in the air 
For the strenuous hearts that dare. 
Whose charges with a cheer 
Thrice is armored against fear. 
Flash the blade and clash the steel — 
Wounds of yesterday will heal ! 
Never mind ! 



APPENDIX 125 



Appendi 



X 



My good friend, Mr. Jesse Heylin, City Attorney of 
Canton, 111., wrote me shortly after the poem ^'At Lin- 
coln's Tomb'"' was first published, in 1895, substantially 
as follows : 

^•'You have put up a fairly good brief — for a poet — 
but you should have taken a change of venue. The 
capital of Illinois was Vandalia, and not Springfield, 
sixty years ago.'' 

Reference to an encyclopedia gave me proof of this, 
but, as I found that Springfield became the capital in 
1836, I hereby enter a demurrer to the astute lawyers 
friendly insinuation of historical inaccuracy upon my 
part. It will be observed that in the concluding stanza 
of the poem the Hon. Jason Pettigrew sets the date of 
his service with Lincoln in the Legislature at Springfield 
at ''nigh on sixty year"' ago. Lincoln was a member of 
the Legislatures of 1834, 1836, 1838 and 1840. 

The Calhoun Herald, published at Hardin, Calhoun 
County, III., in its issue of iNIarch 14, 1895, contained an 
item in part as follows : 

^•'Our readers well remember the poem entitled ^\t 
Lincoln's Tomb,' that went the rounds of the newspapers 
a short time ago. It represented the Hon. Jason Petti- 



126 POEMS ALL THE WA Y FROM PIKE 

grew at Lincoln's tomb soliloquizing on bygone days 
when Lincoln and he served in the State Legislature, 
one from Sangamon, the other from "old Calhoun.' Mr. 
J. W. Becker, anxious to know all about Pettigrew and 
the historical sketch of the poem, wrote to the Hon. 
(3. E. Snedeker at Springfield, asking him to obtain the 
desired information. The inquiry was put into the hands 
of the State Librarian, who, after careful search, reported 
that nothing could be found of Pettigrew. As the poem 
originally appeared in the New York Sun, a letter was 
sent to the editor of that paper, asking for the address 
of Robertus Love, the author of the poem. Mr. Charles 
A. Dana promptly furnished the desired information." 

The author, however, was unable to discover to Mr. 
Becker the whereabouts of the Hon. Jason Pettigrew, 
and the matter is respectfully referred to Mr. Heylin of 
Canton, whose knowledge of the history of Illinois is 
more accurate than mine. R. L. 



